Stranger Things
by velja
Summary: When the case is solved and they've caught the kidnappers, Greg Lestrade is tired, soaked to the bone and he wants nothing more than to go home, have a shower and a cigarette or two. Enter Mycroft Holmes. This is Lestrade-centric, almost a character study, but with a dash of a case fic and pre-romance Mycroft/Lestrade and minor Sherlock/John. No spoilers for season 4.
1. Chapter 1

**Stranger Things**

The night was cold and wet. Rain drizzled down, had done so for quite a while, and it was creeping past Lestrade's upturned collar and soaking into his back. He was cold, he was tired, and he wanted nothing more than to get out.

Out of the wet clothes, out of the rain, and most of all Greg wanted out of this messy case that had kept him and his team – including Sherlock and John – awake and running for almost three days.

They'd been chasing the kidnappers of a ten-year-old kid, Ryan, son of prominent cabinet member Lord Henry Asherton-Fowley. The boy had been abducted almost three weeks ago but the family had kept it quiet out of fear for their kid's life.

The Yard had only become involved three days ago, when Sherlock's current case, the disappearance of a young woman, had concluded in finding her dead body on Lord Henry Asherton-Fowley's premises. With Scotland Yard traipsing all around the house and garden, the family had finally come clean about the kidnapping, realizing that not doing so would endanger their son's life even more.

The dead woman, Lucy Allen, had been occasionally working as a dog walker for the family (a fact that the fiancé hadn't deemed important enough to mention to Sherlock when he'd presented the case, but Sherlock had deduced it quickly enough). She'd apparently surprised the kidnappers while walking the family dog. According to John, who'd first examined the body and had found lots of defensive wounds, she had tried to fight the kidnappers very hard. And apparently the dog had tried to help.

Both had been killed by multiple stab wounds.

Oddly enough, or perhaps not, it had been the brutal slaughter of the family dog that had upset Sherlock the most.

He had insisted on examining the cadaver himself, sampling saliva, blood and even the smallest traces of fibre with a reverence and care Lestrade had rarely seen him display.

The sampled DNA, well, Greg had hated to admit it but it had the whole of Scotland Yard baffled. It had belonged to three different men that not only had no obvious connection whatsoever with each other, but, and that was the baffling fact, that had all been dead for at least six months. They'd died in completely different parts of the country, and all had died of natural causes. Or so it had seemed.

Huh.

Greg and his team had had no idea how to move the investigation forward without a word from the kidnappers. So far there had been no call for ransom, no letter, nothing. Scotland Yard had been at a loss.

But not so Sherlock.

Even now Greg hadn't fully understood how he had done it. But somehow, Sherlock had.

Greg had seen it in the detective's face. Suddenly something had clicked in that brilliant brain of his and Sherlock had let out a gasp followed by an almost annoyed 'Oh! Of course!'

And then he'd fired off a bunch of deductions so abstruse, intricate and complex that were, for anyone that wasn't the genius Sherlock Holmes, simply too bloody discombobulating to follow.

Greg hadn't even tried. What was the point, really? They'd only have wasted time. Like John had pointed out when Sherlock's enthusiasm had become a tad inappropriate, there had been a kidnapped kid to think about.

Greg had wasted no more time but had done what he'd become rather good at over the years. He'd given Sherlock the reigns and had let him bark out orders, trusting him blindly to lead them to the kidnappers and the, hopefully, unharmed kid.

What had followed then had been a breath-taking chase all over London that had finally ended tonight in an empty warehouse at the docks.

They'd found the kid, scared and dehydrated but otherwise unharmed, thank God. They'd also found a gang of five kidnappers, not four like Sherlock had deduced.  
Four were overpowered easily enough, but it had been that bloody fifth member that had given them unexpected trouble. The man had briefly managed to get the jump on them. In the end, it had been Greg himself who'd shot him, but not before both Sherlock and John had been caught in the crossfire.

Sherlock had been shot in the leg and John, seeing his friend go down, had become too frantic in his shock to take the kidnapper out. His shot had missed the man (which was unusual for John but then again, Greg assumed John was rather out of practise) and the kidnapper's return shot had caught John in his right biceps. Despite being hit, John had prepared for another shot but the other man had been quicker with the trigger. Greg had seen and had acted on instinct. He'd pushed John to the ground and, not waiting to hear the enemy's bullet connect with the wall, had fired three times. The kidnapper had sunk to the ground and a pool of blood had slowly but steadily spread out on his chest.

Greg let out a sigh and forced his thoughts away from what had happened inside the warehouse and back to the present. Filling his lungs with the cold and damp outside air helped quite a bit, although it left him yearning for a cigarette. Greg raked a hand through his wet grey hair. The rain had picked up while he'd stood here wool gathering, he realized. He was soaked through to the bone. He sighed again. There would be time for a hot shower later, he hoped. And a fag or two. But for now, he should see to it that this case was wrapped up. He looked around and took stock.

His team was almost finished, having bundled up the surviving four kidnappers in various police cars. The body bag holding the dead one – 'The one I killed', his brain supplied unhelpfully and his stomach gave an unpleasant twinge - was just about to be carried into the hearse.

Quickly Greg let his gaze travel further. There were the two ambulance cars, and Sherlock and John were currently each treated in one. Greg slowly made his way over.

"This is completely stupid", he heard Sherlock complain as soon as he got close enough. "I'm fine. Absolutely fine!"

Greg beelined for the other ambulance. He hadn't fully reached it when he saw John jump down the open back. "It's alright," John threw over his shoulder to the dumbstruck paramedics. "I'll just… yeah. Oh, hi Greg."

"John, where are you…? Shouldn't you…?"

"Where do you think I'm going?" John gestured to the other ambulance and shrugged. "It'll make things easier for everyone if I just… Well, you know how he gets when… yeah, well."

"Right," Greg smirked. "Go on then. Don't let me keep you."

He watched John climb into the back of the ambulance and couldn't help but chuckle. Those two… would they ever manage to catch on to what everyone had seen from the very start? They were it for each other! And clearly, now that the whole Mary business was over and done with and well in the past, they'd eventually…

A large car suddenly screeched to a halt at the edge of the taped-off crime scene. Greg spun around and stared. The back door flew open and a man jumped out, almost falling flat on his face in his haste to get out. Greg recognized him immediately, although he had no idea who had already alerted Lord Henry Asherton-Fowley.

"Where is he? Where is my son?"

Greg cursed inwardly. The family should not yet have been notified. The boy had to be checked out by the paramedics and brought to a hospital, and his parents should see him there and then, not here at the crime scene. Who the hell had gone against protocol and called them? Greg had no time to find out. He let out a sigh and then sprinted over to the agitated man. "Lord Asherton-Fowley!"

"Where is my son, Detective Inspector? Where is Ryan?"

"He's fine," Greg tried to reassure the man. "They didn't hurt him, he's…"

Lord Henry cut him off. "Where is he? I want to see him!"

"Of course," Greg led the man by the elbow to the ambulance John had vacated earlier. There on a stretcher, looking smaller than a boy of ten ever should, was Ryan.

He was hooked up on an IV and bundled up in several shock blankets. His blond hair was dark from dust and grime and his face smeared with tearstains. A paramedic was busy bandaging a small gash on the boy's forehead. Blue eyes peaked out from under the bandage and they widened considerably in relief when the two men approached.

"Daddy!"

Greg let go of Lord Henry's arm so that the man could climb into the ambulance. "Ryan, oh Ryan," the man's voice broke and Greg watched him sink to his knees next to the stretcher. "Oh, thank God, you're okay. I'm here now, Ryan. I'm here. Everything's going to be alright."

From where he stood at the back of the ambulance, Greg watched father and son for a little while. 'This is good,' he thought and felt the earlier twinge in his stomach ease somewhat. 'This is why it's worth it. I did what I had to do, and I'll always do what I'll have to do, for moments like this.'

"All is well that ends well, wouldn't you agree, Detective Inspector?"

The familiar quiet voice startled Greg to no end. He turned around and found himself face to face with none other than Mycroft Holmes.

"What are you doing here?"

Greg knew he had to sound harsh but, frankly, he couldn't care less. He was tired, he was soaked to the bone, he'd just killed a man, and he absolutely wasn't in the mood to deal with Mycroft bloody Holmes. Although, come to think of it, the rain had somehow stopped soaking him. Greg looked up. Oh, right. Mycroft was holding his ever-present umbrella over the both of them. Still…

Greg turned his face back to the man. Mycroft was simply looking at him, looking through him, with this kinda creepy and kinda not look that he had. Eyes Greg had no idea what colour they were seemed to bore into him, making him want to cringe and hide, while at the same time they seemed to pull him in. He could drown in those eyes.

"Well?" Greg ground out when the silence got too much. "This some kind of secret government thing or are you just concerned for your brother? He's over there by the way," Greg pointed to the second ambulance. "So…" He made an awkward shooing gesture that didn't seem to register on Mycroft's mind, at all.

The taller man continued to stare at him, and then he sighed, looked briefly to the ground, and when he met Greg's gaze again, the intense look was gone from his eyes. What was left was a somewhat half-smile, half-shrug that, on anyone else, would have looked apologetic. On Mycroft, it looked just plain weird.

"I…" Mycroft cleared his throat, "…took the liberty of informing Lord Asherton-Fowley of the fact that his son had been found and then I brought him here."

"Of course you bloody did." Greg shook his head. "Should've known. On my team, everyone knows how to follow protocol."

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, just, don't say it," Greg waved off. The utter foolishness of his statement had just crossed his mind. Mycroft Homes was perhaps many things, but not a team player. He probably thought himself to be above such trivial things as proper police protocol – and very possibly he was. Still, that didn't give him the right…

"I merely wished to help. Speed things along, so to speak." Mycroft threw a brief glance into the ambulance where Ryan was still being treated, his father by his side. "Lord Asherton-Fowley is an… acquaintance, and naturally I followed this case. I was informed earlier tonight that my dear brother had deduced the kidnappers' whereabouts and that he, alongside Scotland Yard, would attempt to rescue the boy."

"Does Sherlock know you still have him under surveillance? Does John?" Greg threw in only half-heartily. Of course, they had to know. Or, at the very least, they suspected. In the months since… well, since it all happened, Greg had seen Sherlock often enough tear apart the flat searching for cameras. Not that he'd ever found any.

Mycroft didn't seem to deem Greg's comment worthy of a reply. He simply went on explaining in his detached business-like manner.

"Tonight, I found myself in the rather rare position of having no pressing business matter to attend to. Well, that is, none that required my own personal interference, and everything else I was able to… delegate or postpone."

"In other words," Greg chuckled, "you moved Heaven and Hell to clear your busy schedule so that you could watch out for your little brother."

Again, Mycroft didn't acknowledge Greg's comment in any words. Merely an irritated eye twitch gave him away. "Anyway, so I took it upon myself to inform Lord Asherton-Fowley of the possibility that tonight his son might be found alive and well, and I had him brought to my office in case all would go according to plan. To increase the possibility of a positive outcome, I had a small team of… let's say, special agents ready and on alert nearby."

Mycroft forestalled any protest Greg might have uttered by holding up a hand. "I assure you, Detective Inspector, that it was done in no way out of doubt for Scotland Yard's competence, or yours for that matter. Quite the contrary, I assure you. But, well, you've known my brother for quite a while now, so I'm sure you'll agree with me when I say he can be a bit of a rather unbalanced variable in any equation. And I didn't want to take any risks, not with the life of a child hanging in the balance."

Greg's mouth closed, the protest dying on his lips. Although he didn't always agree with Mycroft's methods, and he sure as hell seemed to have a better opinion on Sherlock's capabilities, and he placed more trust in the Consulting Detective than his brother seemed to do, in the end Mycroft almost always meant well. He loved his brother, of that Greg was sure.

And, Greg had to admit, Mycroft had made a good point. There had been a child's life at stake tonight. Greg didn't want to think about how absolutely shite he'd feel now, had something happened to the boy. In comparison, feeling a twinge of guilt in his gut because he'd had to kill one of the kidnappers was nothing. It had happened in defence of his team (for John and Sherlock were part of his team, if not more, they were friends, too) and he'd do it all over again in a heartbeat, Greg knew.

No, Mycroft had been right. All's well that ends well, hadn't he said so earlier? Still, Greg assumed he could've done without killing anyone. He'd sure as hell sleep better in the future, had he not been forced to…

"Now, wait a minute," he suddenly frowned. "Why didn't you send your agents in? Sherlock was shot and John… and I had to… you could've…"

For a second something like guilt crossed Mycroft's features but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Greg couldn't even be sure it had been there at all. Mycroft shrugged and cleared his throat.

"It seemed to me like you had the situation well under control, so I didn't want to interfere unless I absolutely had to. But Sherlock and John both suffered merely minor injuries, they were only grazed by the bullets, as the paramedics will no doubt confirm, and you…"

"I killed a man!"

"You, Detective Inspector, acted in the most competent and professional manner possible while defending yourself and your team members. You handled and concluded the entire case in the highest proficient way. You caught the kidnappers and saved the child, and it was all done with minimum damage and almost no casualties, and none of severe consequence, I might add. So, congratulations, Detective Inspector, on a job well done."

Greg didn't know what to say. He stared at the taller man, not sure if he'd really heard that right. It had almost sounded as if Mycroft Holmes had not only just defended his actions but paid him a genuine compliment as well. And, on top of it all, it had almost sounded as if Mycroft had just tried to make him feel better.

Huh. Stranger things had happened, right? Oh, wait. No, they hadn't. The great Mycroft Holmes trying to make someone feel better, trying to give comfort and assurance… well, that was definitely the strangest thing Greg had ever experienced.

"I must be asleep on my feet. That's it. Can't be real." Greg tried to shake himself awake and realized in the process that his entire body was shivering and shaking. He was bloody freezing!

"Excuse me?" Mycroft sounded caught off-guard, another thing Greg knew he'd never heard before.

"No-Nothing," Greg managed to get out between his teeth shattering. "Anyway, err, thanks, you know. And, yeah, I should…" He pointed to where Sergeant Sally Donovan and the rest of his team were waiting. "I need to, you know, wrap this up."

"Certainly, Detective Inspector." Mycroft took a step back. Only then did Greg realize how close to each other they'd been standing. Huddled together under Mycroft's umbrella, closed off and… intimate.

'Wait, what? Where the hell had that come from?' Greg almost choked on his own saliva. He let out a quick cough to clear his suddenly dry throat (and his addled brain, he thought shocked).

Mycroft was fixing him with another one of his close stares and Greg felt more exposed than ever. He was suddenly sure that the other man knew exactly what he'd been thinking and would let out a scratching, or worse, pitying comment. But Mycroft surprised him yet again.

"May I perhaps be so forward as to suggest that you, for once, let your Sergeants deal with finishing this case on their own? Certainly, they can be trusted to manage it? Or do they really need you to show them how to put ordinary criminals behind bars? The paperwork can wait till morning, I am sure."

Greg swallowed, not exactly sure what was happening here. Was Mycroft flirting with him? Seriously? And why was he thinking about that? He didn't even like Mycroft! Or did he? Greg wasn't sure. He didn't really know Mycroft. And was Mycroft even… Was he really… Was he suggesting… He wasn't, was he? Oh, for God's sake, there's only one way to find out.

"And what would you so forwardly suggest I should do instead?" Had it come out too suggestive? Too flirty? Not flirty enough? Bloody hell, he hadn't done this in years! At least not with a bloke. Not that he'd ever thought about doing it with a bloke… err, flirting that is. He'd meant flirting, not the other thing. Oh God, now he was thinking about doing the other thing! With Mycroft! Whom he didn't even like!

And now he was shouting at himself in his head. Shut up, Greg.

"Why, Detective Inspector," Mycroft drawled. "I think that… Well, perhaps it would be best for you to go home. You're drenched through and I wouldn't want for you to catch a cold."

Oh. Right.

So, no flirting. How stupid of him to think that… Mycroft had simply been polite. And concerned for his wellbeing. Of course, that's it. He'd been merely concerned. Or, had he? Why had he paused?

Greg let out a sigh. He was confused, and tired beyond measure. He wasn't thinking straight (indeed you weren't. Quite the opposite, right? Shut up!)

"Right," Greg muttered and raked a hand through his hair. Mycroft's eyes, he noticed, followed his every move. "Anyway, yeah. Right." He took a step away from Mycroft. "Go home, I'll do that. Now. So, yeah, err." Another step backwards. "Goodnight, Mycr… I mean, Mr. Holmes. Goodnight. And, you know, thanks. For, yeah." Another two steps back, then a turn, then…

"Detective Inspector?"

"What?" Greg turned back immediately.

"I just…" Mycroft blinked and threw a quick look to the ground before he looked at Greg again. "Mycroft is fine."

"Right," Greg nodded. "Okay. Well, then… goodnight, Mycroft."

He had made four or five more paces away when he heard the soft reply.

"Goodnight, Gregory."

****************************************

The End (for now)


	2. Chapter 2

Somewhere between the rather awkward conversation with Mycroft, that had left Greg more confused than ever, and getting the case wrapped up, the rain had stopped falling. The night was glistening cold and clear now, the temperature on the verge of freezing. But at least there was no more rain.

Thank God for small favours, Greg thought while he watched the last of the police cars drive off. The scene was almost all cleared; only one ambulance was still parked next to the warehouse. It was, he realized, the one Sherlock and John had earlier been treated in for their gunshot wounds.

Why hadn't they left for the hospital already? The second ambulance car with little Ryan, the kidnapped kid, and his father inside had left the crime scene a while ago, Greg had noticed. So, what's keeping them?

Greg slowly made his way over, carefully avoiding the patches of slowly freezing rainwater on the uneven ground. He could sure as hell do without slipping and breaking his neck in the process. So far, the night had been bad enough with the whole having to shoot a man, running around in wet clothes that now felt stiff with frost, and dealing with Mycroft Holmes' weird behaviour on top. No, he'd had quite enough.

Greg approached the ambulance and saw the back doors were closed, the lights inside were on, and it looked ready to go. Only, the two paramedics that should have been inside were standing next to their vehicle, clad in warm goose feather jackets complete with gloves, drinking coffee from small thermos cups.

"What's going on?" Greg's eyes travelled to the ambulance and back. "Are they inside?"

"Err, well. Yeah," the taller one, Josh something, if Greg remembered correctly, nodded. "Sherlock Holmes, well, he wouldn't let us treat him."

Greg huffed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. Bloody hell, Sherlock! Not again. The other paramedic had meanwhile filled a cup with coffee.

"You want some?" Greg took the cup, grateful to get some warmth into his body. "Thanks." He threw another glance at the lit window. He could see a shadow moving inside. "So, I take it John is…?"

"Yeah, Doctor Watson's just taking the bullet out."

"One-armed, he is. And still better than some doctors I've seen." The paramedics sounded impressed rather than annoyed that they had to stand around in the cold, waiting for a not exactly legal surgery to be done inside their hijacked ambulance.

Josh seemed to know what Greg had been thinking, for he shrugged indifferently. "Hey, it's not my first time dealing with Sherlock Holmes. I was on duty a few weeks ago, when that thing went down at Victoria Station, remember?"

"Oh, right," Greg did remember. Sherlock had been extremely difficult and stubborn in the aftermath of that particular case. "So, you just, what? Wait outside till they're done then?"

"Yeah, it's cool. It's stopped raining, and we have coffee. As long as we don't get another call in… let them have it their way."

Greg silently agreed and took another sip of coffee. The hot beverage ran smoothly down his throat and filled his stomach with a pleasant warmth. He could almost feel his feet again, and wasn't that something quite nice? His mood lifted considerably. He was about to pull his pack of cigarettes from his pocket when suddenly the radio in the ambulance's front went off.

Oh shit. The paramedics sprang into action. The one whose name Greg didn't know hammered against the side of the car.

"Sorry, you two. Are you done? We have a call!"

He opened the back door while Josh jumped into the front to answer the radio. Greg followed to the back.

Inside, he saw that John was obviously just done bandaging Sherlock's left thigh. The bullet had grazed it just about a hand's width above the knee, and the leg of Sherlock's trousers had been cut open from the bottom almost all the way up. What was left of it was caked in blood. So were Sherlock's hands, Greg noticed. He must have tried to stem the blood flow earlier.

John's right sleeve had also been cut open to treat the wound he'd got. It was properly bandaged and John was just putting his arm back into the sling around his neck. So much for one-handed, huh?

Both men looked pale and tired. Greg could relate.

"Ah, Lestrade," Sherlock carefully climbed out of the ambulance while John stayed to exchange a few quiet words with the paramedic. Sherlock pulled his coat around his thin frame and hobbled over. "You're still here, good. You can take us home."

"Wha… what?" Greg groaned. "Sherlock!" Baker Street wasn't exactly on his way home, quite the contrary. It'd be hours before he'd finally make it to his own bed.

"Oh, fine," Sherlock had watched his face closely. "We'll take a cab then. John?"

He turned around just as John was climbing out. The paramedic gave one last wave goodbye, closed the door from the inside and then the ambulance sped off, blue lights shining and casting ghostly shadows onto everyone's face.

"A cab?" John had joined the two of them, his jacket slung loosely around his shoulders. "We'll never get a cab here, Sherlock. And besides, none will take us. I mean, have you looked at us?"

Greg silently agreed. Cabbies these days were very stubborn when it came to blood-soaked passengers. Something about the cleaning bills for the upholstery or such rubbish. Not that he didn't understand, he did, but… well, where had the days gone when you could be sure you'd get home safe, even if you looked like you'd been drinking and whatnot for three days straight? Which you had, most times? Bloody hell, Greg thought, he was getting old.

He let out a sigh, both mourning the good old days and the fact that it looked like he'd have to make the detour round Baker Street after all. He couldn't very well just leave Sherlock and John here, could he? Sherlock would never let him forget it, and he'd be in a strop for weeks!

So, better to deal with it now, right? Even if it meant he'd barely get four hours of sleep till he'd have to be back at the Yard. Greg resigned to his fate and gulped down the rest of his coffee. He'd forgotten to return the cup, he realized. Oh, well, it's not like it was the first time.

Greg stuffed the cup in his pocket but looked up again when he suddenly heard Sherlock groan. A shadow had fallen over the tall man's face, both literally and figuratively.

"Why are you still here, Mycroft?" Sherlock almost spat his brother's name. Greg stiffened inwardly and slowly turned to where Mycroft Holmes had suddenly materialised out of thin air.

"Why, to offer you a lift, dear brother." Mycroft fixed Sherlock with a superior glare. "Naturally, I anticipated such childish antics as displayed earlier. Instead of going to the hospital like any sound person would, of course you had to act difficult and had to pressure Doctor Watson into treating you while he's injured himself. Typical selfish behaviour, Sherlock, and thus transparently obvious."

"He doesn't like hospitals, so what?" John obviously felt the need to defend his friend. "It's no big deal. We're both fine now."

"Yes, thank you, John, for treating my brother. I doubt that he's voiced his gratefulness to you, nor that he ever will. But I suppose you must be used to it by now."

"Well, yes, I am. And you're welcome." John shifted on his feet. "So, yeah. If you'd give us a lift home, that would be great, wouldn't it, Sherlock?"

"No."

Greg had watched the whole scene from the side lines, grateful to not be directly involved, and couldn't help but snort. Seriously, Sherlock was worse than any kid.

"Well, I'm not driving you home, Sherlock," Greg smirked. "So I think you'd better take him up on his offer."

"No."

John glared at him. "Sherlock!"

The Consulting Detective remained as stubborn as ever. He even pouted. "I'm not going with him." He threw a glare at his brother and Mycroft, Greg saw, stared right back. The silence lasted for two seconds, and then Mycroft huffed and looked away.

"Get in the car, Sherlock."

"Not with you."

"Fine," Mycroft sighed. "Have it your way."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed triumphantly. Mycroft closed his eyes, probably to hide an eyeroll. "I'll let you have the car. I will have another brought for myself."

Greg blinked surprised, and so did John. It seemed that they'd both not expected Mycroft to give in. And surely not in such a, frankly speaking, stupid way.

"You're both nuts, you know that, right?"

Greg got two frowning Holmes' faces in return. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Well, I'm off. You sort this out for yourselves."

"Come on, John," Sherlock took hold of John's sleeve and, without another glance at his brother, pulled the poor man away to where Mycroft's black car was waiting.

"Night, Greg," John threw over his shoulder. Sherlock added a pointed "Goodnight, Mycroft!" before he opened the back door and ushered John inside.

Greg watched the car drive off, still shaking his head. It was in moments like this, he realized, that he felt almost glad his two brothers lived far away. Not that he'd ever compare his own average family to the complex relationship the Holmes' seemed to have going on, but… well, yeah.

A movement by his side had Greg snap out of his thoughts. Mycroft had shifted his umbrella to hang from his left arm while he was trying to reach into the inside pocket of his coat. His hand came back out with his phone.

"You're gonna call another car?"

"Of course," Mycroft looked at him with one eyebrow raised questioningly.

"Like, seriously? You're gonna pull some poor bloke from his warm bed to come pick you up in the middle of the night?"

The look he got for that, very condescending and slightly amused, had Greg feel very stupid. As if he'd questioned something so ordinary and mundane as, don't know, the sun rising in the east or such. Which, come to think of it, he probably had. Chauffeurs and whatnot at his every beck and call, no matter what hour of the day… that was Mycroft's world, wasn't it?

Yeah. Still, Greg was sympathising with the poor driver that would have to come out here to the docks. In this weather no less. The wet ground had, thanks to the temperature rounding on zero, partly turned into a slippery slope. And even if the busy streets of the City shouldn't present the same problem… the driver would still have to get here.

Before he knew it, Greg had reached out and halted Mycroft's hand that held the phone. "Don't bother."

Mycroft looked at their joined hands, then into Greg's face. Both eyebrows were up now. Greg let go and shrugged.

"Come on, don't be daft. I'm here, your car's not, so… yeah. And before you say it, I know that you've got people who get paid for catering to your whims twenty-four seven. Still, let the poor bloke sleep and let's get out of here. I'll drive you."

"I wouldn't want to inconvenience you, Detective Inspector."

"You're not."

"You don't know where I live."

He was right, Greg realized. He'd been to Mycroft's office at Whitehall, and he knew about the Diogenes Club (John had complained, err, spoken of it more than once), but he had no idea where Mycroft lived. The man had to have a home somewhere, or, more likely, several. A vast County estate in Sussex perhaps, and probably a flat or two in one of the poshest areas London had to offer. Kensington seemed most likely.

He didn't want to just guess though, so he simply shrugged. "Well, how about you just tell me then? Would make things easier."

Mycroft seemed reluctant.

"Or is it a government secret?" Greg's eyes gleamed with mirth. He had no idea why he suddenly felt like it was a good idea to tease Mycroft, he just… it just felt right.

"I can assure you, it's not. However…"

Greg had had enough. "Oh, for God's sake, I'm starting to think you're an even harder piece of work than Sherlock. And that's saying something."

That seemed to do it. Mycroft pocketed his phone and conceded with a nod. "Very well. Lead the way, Detective Inspector."

They walked in silence to Greg's car and, once inside and buckled up, Greg turned his head. Mycroft seemed to feel out of place or, rather, he looked out of place among the knickknacks that cluttered the car. Greg turned off the music (he wasn't sure that Mycroft Holmes appreciated his choice of music anyway – not that it should matter to Greg what Mycroft thought). To fill the sudden silence, Greg voiced one of the things currently on his mind.

"You know, it's Greg by the way."

"Pardon?" Mycroft lifted his gaze from where it had lingered on Greg's hands on the wheel.

"You keep calling me Detective Inspector. That isn't my name, you know. It's Greg."

"Apologies, Detec… Greg." Mycroft looked as if he had a toothache. Greg snorted.

"Right, well, if it's such a strain, you could always call me Lestrade. Some people do."

"I am not some people."

"Yeah, you're sure as hell not."

Greg missed the frown Mycroft sent his way because he'd turned his attention to the road. He mastered the slippery dockside well enough and eventually pulled into more traffic. Instinctively, he drove in the general direction of Kensington. Mycroft would say if it was wrong, Greg hoped.

"This is not to be taken personally, but I don't particularly like the name Greg," Mycroft surprised him. "And neither, I should think, does my brother."

Greg shot him a quick glance. "Huh, you're right. Sherlock keeps conveniently forgetting it, calling me Graham or Gabe or anything but Greg really."

"I don't blame him," Mycroft looked down at his hands. "And I assure you, it is not forgetfulness. He is just…"

"He's doing it to rile me up, I know."

"I don't think that's the case. He is…" Mycroft paused. Greg saw him swallow and turn to look out the window before he quietly continued. "Sherlock appreciates… he values your friendship, Detective Inspector. More than you know. I think it is simply his way of dealing with another 'Greg' in his life."

Before Greg could ask what Mycroft meant (so there had been someone called Greg that both brothers had known and, apparently, had no good memory of), the latter cleared his throat and then continued briskly.

"If you would turn left at the end, please."

"Sure," Greg knew when to shut his mouth. This was obviously something very personal, and not very pleasant. So, he wouldn't pry. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know.

Greg drove down the street, turned left and continued to follow Mycroft's directions in silence. Eventually they reached the quiet streets of Kensington and Mycroft shifted in his seat.

"If you'd stop here, please."

Greg pulled over and turned towards Mycroft, not sure what to say. Only, he felt the need to say something. He didn't want this to end with the rather frosty air between them. But Mycroft beat him to it.

"Thank you, Detective Inspector." Without looking at Greg he opened the door and quickly got out, his umbrella in hand.

Greg stared after him. 'Damn it!' he cursed and jumped out of his seat. "Wait!"

Mycroft stopped walking but didn't turn around.

Greg blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. "You got a pub around here? Let me buy you a beer."

Inwardly he kicked himself. Could he have come up with something more far-fetched? Mycroft Holmes, in a pub, drinking beer? Greg shook his head. He couldn't even envision it.

Neither, it seemed, could Mycroft. The look on his face when he turned spoke volumes. It was nothing short of absolute and utter bafflement. As if he'd never heard the words 'pub' and 'beer' in his life. Greg assumed he could've just as well shouted 'Fuck the Queen!' in Chinese or something. Mycroft couldn't have looked more bewildered then. Perhaps even less so, come to think of it, since Mycroft probably spoke Chinese fluently.

"Sorry? A beer?" Mycroft seemed to have found his voice eventually. The toothache-face was back though, complete with a biting tenor in his voice that would've made Sherlock envious.

"Yeah, no," Greg scratched his neck in embarrassment. "I know. Forget I said anything. I didn't… well, it's just that…" He stopped to take a deep breath. Mycroft was still staring at him as if he'd grown a second head.

"Look," Greg finally sighed. "Back in the car, the whole Greg thing… which I don't wanna know about since it's obviously none of my business… Anyway, it was awkward. And it doesn't have to be. So, I just thought, I don't know, do what normal blokes do. You know, grab a pint and forget about it. I didn't think things through, obviously. Forgot who I was talking to and all."

Mycroft made two steps in Greg's direction. "I am certainly not a 'normal bloke'."

"No, you're right. You're the posh Mycroft Holmes, the British Government incarnate." Greg stuffed his hands in his pockets to stop them from fidgeting. He huffed and shook his head. "Told you, I didn't think it through. You probably don't go to a pub, like ever."

"I do not," Mycroft confirmed with both eyebrows raised.

"Or drink beer."

"Never."

"Right," Greg nodded. He took a step back, and another, wanting nothing more than to get out of here. What had he been thinking?

Mycroft tilted his head and eyed him rather curiously. Then he cleared his throat and gave his umbrella a casual swing.

"I do, however, like to enjoy a glass of well-chilled Château Latour every now and then. Which I… happen to have in my kitchen. Would you care to join me for a glass, Gregory?"

Greg's eyebrows shot up. Was Mycroft suggesting…? That almost sounded as if… But, well, that's not what Greg had had in mind when he'd suggested they'd have a drink. Or was it? He wasn't sure.

"I…"

Mycroft forestalled whatever he'd been about to say. "I understand, however, if you'd rather decline, and I will by no means be disappointed or irritated. After all, it is late, you have had a trying few days, and I can imagine that you long to change out of your drenched clothes. So…"

"You're right," Greg agreed. He was tired, and beat, and he was yearning for a hot shower and a cigarette. But above all else, he was suddenly very curious what it would be like. Mycroft's home… Mycroft in his home… drinking wine with Mycroft in his home…

"I see. Well, then." Mycroft ducked his head briefly.

"Yeah. Listen, I don't suppose your offer could be raised to, let's say, wine, a shower and some spare clothes?"

For a second, Mycroft's mouth opened and closed like a fish's. Then he smirked. "I do believe that could be arranged."

Greg grinned and held his car keys over his shoulder. The sound of the central locking system rang loudly through the night.

"Then count me in."


End file.
